


Owe You One

by bronwins, joannakth



Category: In the Loop (2009), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Anger Management, Blackmail, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gen, Scottish Yelling, Swearing, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronwins/pseuds/bronwins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannakth/pseuds/joannakth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"None of it would ever have happened if Nicola Murray and her staff weren't complete, incompetent bags of shite."</p><p>Malcolm goes too far. Action must be taken.</p><p>Or: the one where Malcolm goes to anger management.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Rated for Scottish yelling and eventual sexy times.
> 
> It's been a long time since I've published anything. This foray back into the world of anything written will hopefully not fall down about my ears. I own nothing. All forms of feedback are incredibly, deeply appreciated.

"Two fucking things, right? About why you're here and have got the job you've got, right now. Because you honestly bloody shouldn't."

"Right."

"No really. I mean, for the sort of person I am, you're vastly fucking under qualified." He paced around like an agitated cat. "Vastly.  _Fucking_. Under qualified."

"Yes, alright."

"The reason you now have this job-and I just would like to take a fucking moment to state that I don't want you here. Literally, no one wants you here. At all. I would literally-fucking  _literally_ -rather be arse-fucked by Sir Julius MechaCunt than to have you here. But of course, because the forces of the universe are constantly fucking pissing and shitting all over my god damned head-"

"Could we get on?" Her rather broad head was cocked to one side, eyes gleaming like sea glass.

"Don't fuck with me, alright sweetheart. You've here for precisely two reasons. First, you're Scottish, and it's fucking exhausting dealing with these wanking bastards all the goddamned time-English fucking knobends-"

"The second reason, Mr. Tucker, if you'd just-"

"Don't fucking call me that, or 'sir.' Fuck's sake. The second fucking reason is-"

He stopped himself from his wild pacing abruptly, nearly losing his balance as he gripped the edge of his desk. He tried to stare her down-making an effort to puzzle her out and pull her apart. Trying to spot even the _smallest_ glimmer of a reaction in her eyes. She didn’t make a move to stop him. She didn’t even look surprised. She just looked back, calm, collected, utterly unreadable.

"Well, you're the only fucking one that applied."

"Shall we get started, then?" 

"Right," he seated himself behind his desk, suddenly nervous of a five foot woman in a discount pencil skirt and scuffed shoes. "Fuck me, let's _fucking_ get started."

* * *

 "Are you going to ask me about my wanking habits?" He growled, long, knobby fingers twisted in his cropped, greying hair. Ten minutes of awkward stops and starts had crawled by, and she hadn't said much-if anything at all.

"Do you want to talk about your wanking habits?"

"For  _fuck's_ -I mean, is this not your fucking department? You're even more shite than I thought!"

"How shite did you imagine I'd be?" Her tone was professionally light, but it didn't matter. He pushed on as though she hadn't said a word.

"Aren't you going to fucking-I don't know, fucking ask me if I've been dreaming about my mam and da, bummin' in front of me with shitting fucking-I don't know- _Hannibal Lecter_  playing the fucking accordion in Balamory, or something?"

Silence. Her pen dawdled over her yellow legal pad.

"Well, not that specifically, no."

"Fucking  _get on_. I've only got to deal with the fate of the bloody planet, so, you know, plenty of fucking time to fucking waste-"

"You know, if I could get a word in, I'd love to fucking  _get on_." Her tone, still professional, but edged with something unidentifiable and dangerous, made his voice die in his throat. "Would you like to maybe close your gob, or waste some more of your own bloody time?"

Even after years, the ironed consonants of a Scottish mouth made him nearly click his heels. Old habits die hard, he supposed, and her stern gaze left no room for argument, even from him. He slammed his teeth together, and grabbed for a tangerine, almost involuntarily.

"Now," she said. "Where are you from?"

"Glasgow. What about you-Edinburgh?"

"Yeah."

More silence.  _The quiet sort,_ he noted. _The sort that only make you want to dig further._  He curled up a little in his office chair, and studied her.

He looked her over carefully, trying to glean whatever he could. After a long glance he decided that she really _was_ rather pretty, albeit in a smug, Poxbridge sort of way. Long, brown waves framed a broad, intelligent face already marked with lines about her lips. Something told him they were not from smiling. Probably the constant thin-lipped look of reproach that had yet to leave her face. She didn’t seem the type to laugh easily.

Her glasses were large and dark rimmed, and obscured eyes that were not quite hazel, though perhaps not brown either. They had the same murky-brightness of fish scales catching the sun beneath the surface of a stream. Hard to read, but glinting with a spark of something nonetheless.

Her freckles, also partly obscured by her glasses, seemed out place on a face so hard and unforgiving. Too innocent and childlike beside those dangerous eyes and pursed lips.

He was shoving tangerine slices so steadily into his mouth, he nearly choked when she interrupted his reverie.

"Before we go on, there are some things that I need to say, just for the record."

"Fucking brilliant."

"My name is Erin McLeish. I'm a licensed therapist-board certified, obviously-but I'm sure your people have been scrounging up dirt on me all morning, so that's enough about my qualifications. Anything you say here is protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. I'm here to assist you, then to report to Mr. Nicholson on your  _general_  progress, not to divulge every detail. Is that clear?"

"Fucking clear."

She cracked a smile. She had one dimple, nestled just to the left of her lips, and he felt an unexpected bolt of excitement run through him at her small, reluctant grin. He was suddenly filled with self-righteousness after managing to coax her expression into something other than an apathetic pan. 

It was a feeling that didn’t last long, though, thanks her consequent words.

"Well then, Malcolm. Welcome to your anger management course."


	2. First Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay. Let's fucking get this over with. By all the cunts on the fucking cross."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently people are cool with this story, which is nice. I'm going to update at least once a week, if I can. I have so much already written, so it's not like you guys will be waiting endlessly for new chapters.
> 
> I own nothing. Consider yourselves disclaimed.

None of it would have ever happened if Nicola Murray and her staff weren't complete, incompetent, bags of shite.

"The thing is, Malcolm, and try, you know, if you can, to stay calm. The thing is. Well, really, you actually might laugh-"

"I can assure you, darlin', the longer you fucking stall me, the less likely I am to laugh. More likely to take your intestines out through your throat and use it as a fucking skip-rope."

"Alright, okay, thanks very much for that."

"Get on with it woman, for fuck's sake."

"Do you remember our Bright Futures Initiative?" Nicola Murray looked, to Malcolm, as though she was about to take a radish up the arse.

"About as well as every other shite policy that gets cranked through this god-forsaken department."

"The one that you said the PM wanted to present personally. The one concerning the, uh-"

"The specials?"

"Alright, well, that's terribly offensive-"

"What about it?"

Silence.

" _What a-fucking-bout it_?"

What was happening, then, to The Secretary of State's face, was precisely why so many people had a very difficult time liking her.

"Well, Ollie...he told his, that girl he's seeing, and-"

"Oh fuck no."

"Yes, yes, and now...well now, the other side's got it."

An awkward silence permeated the air. Nicola Murray was somehow turning the color of curdled milk. Definitely pale, yes, but also curiously yellow.

It should be noted that, for Malcolm Tucker, the week had been rather excessively long. Incredibly, excessively long, in point of fact-far above and beyond the expanse of his brief. On top of a dozen media fires to put out over the Prime Minister's failing marriage, he had been given the directive to "be more pleasant" to Sir Julius Fuckwagon The Third. A nigh upon impossible task. He was tired, and he felt like shit. And a DoSAC fuck-up was the absolute last thing that he was ready to deal with.

"You lot seem to be under the impression," he began, speaking slowly and choosing every word with care, his motor skills lagging slightly behind the white-hot rage beginning to unfold in his stomach. "That I've got nothing better to do than to clean up the astounding number of shits you all seem to love taking on this government."

"I mean, it's your job, you know, to help us-"

"I-oh fucking  _Jesus_ , Nicola, I'm not your fucking mother, am I?" He could feel his hands wrapping around sides of Glenn's ergonomic chair, knuckles whitening as his rage swiftly pulsed through his body and seeped into every muscle and sinew. He squeezed the chair airs harder, taking great delight in pretending they were Nicola Murray's neck.

"The uh, the leader of the opposition has it."

More. Fucking. Silence.

Perhaps it was because someone on earth had finally exceeded what he thought was the final demarcation of failure, while still remaining a member of the human race. Perhaps it was the stupid look Nicola Murray cast at him as she shook with nervousness from beyond the desk. Or perhaps it was just the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Though Malcolm hardly saw himself a camel. He saw himself more as some kind of watchful guard dog. Cunning, strong, loyal, with big fucking teeth. Anyway, it hardly mattered.

Though maybe it did because, like a dog on the attack, he was conscious of very little after that moment. One second he was watching Nicola Murray shake like a leaf, and the next he was roaring with all the wild, snarling fury he had in his body. It was all a blur after that, the only memories remaining were those of an earth shattering crash and a very pleasant, if damp, breeze tickling his burning cheeks.

"Malcolm, you've broken our window." Nicola’s voice was even smaller than normal. He poked his head out of the massive hole in the plate glass, his right ear scraping the sharp serrated edge as he did it. The pain quelled his rage slightly and feeling as close to shame as Malcolm Tucker had ever felt settled within him in the wake of his outburst.

"So I have," he remarked plainly.

Glenn's ergonomic chair and a window's worth of broken glass littered the alley below. He gulped trying to swallow back the near-shameful feeling climbing up his throat.

"Just fix it, yeah?" he barked, quickly burying the feeling as deep as possible. Suddenly, he was tired, and more than a little nervous.

"The window, or the uh-"

"Fucking both, you overgrown chihuahua puppy."

"Fucking-YOU'RE the one who broke-"

But whatever Nicola Murray had to say could wait. He had no time for her, especially in the wake of the giant shit storm she’d just dumped in his lap. Perhaps this whole episode would end up with everyone learning a lesson. With that thought in mind, Malcolm felt much lighter.  He shrugged Nicola Murray’s protests off like an overcoat as he left, and strode powerfully toward the lifts.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **FROM:**  [j.nicholson@gmail.com](mailto:j.nicholson@gmail.com)

 **TO:**  [m.tucker@gmail.com](mailto:m.tucker@gmail.com)

**[SENT: 2:45 PM]**

**SUBJECT:** DoSAC

Just heard from Nicola Murray, RE the window.

Can’t just let this one go, can we?

Please stop by my office tonight before you leave.

 Julius Nicholson

 

 **FROM:**  [m.tucker@gmail.com](mailto:m.tucker@gmail.com)

 **TO:**  [j.nicholson@gmail.com](mailto:j.nicholson@gmail.com)

**[SENT: 3:00 PM]**

**SUBJECT: RE:** DoSAC

Fuck yourself, you pompous bald wanker.

M.

 

 **FROM:**  [j.nicholson@gmail.com](mailto:j.nicholson@gmail.com)

 **TO:**  [m.tucker@gmail.com](mailto:m.tucker@gmail.com)

**[SENT: 3:05 PM]**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE:** DoSAC

See you around 6, then.

Julius Nicholson

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, it seemed, it turned out to be a lesson for no one.

Except for Malcolm perhaps, as Julius suggested as he politely told Malcolm that he could go to anger management or explain to the Prime Minister why he'd lost control and broken a window.

And, well, that was how Malcolm Tucker ended up at an anger management course.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well, I feel bad for his therapist, really," said Ollie through a mouthful of bad Chinese food. "He'll chew her up, swallow her, and shit her out. She'll be all broken, y'know, and coated in shit."

"Well, we'll be in good company, won't we?" Nicola spat. "It's our window that's broken, or did you forget?"

Both sets of their eyes swiveled to Glenn, who was trying vainly to patch the missing window with a cut up bin bag. Every time he tried to tape down one side of the bag, another edge would blow open and flop over onto his face. It was absolutely pitiful.

"Shall we get onto the Bright Futures thing, then?" said Ollie, not able to look at Glenn’s floundering any longer.

"Oh I don’t know," Nicola sighed. "Let's just wallow in our massive fuck-up for another few minutes. For God's sake Glenn, get the hell away from there, you're going to slice your bloody hand open."

When Glenn didn't answer, and then, after a few moments, cut his palm against a jagged edge of glass, Nicola Murray put her head down on the desk with a thump.

 

* * *

 

 

Malcom watched time crawl by on her wristwatch. The thing was massive-ridiculously out of place on her bony wrist-and he was more than idly curious about where she’d found it. He was so distracted by the damn thing he hadn’t realized how long she’d gone without even asking him a question.

"You're a fucking terrible therapist, do you know that?"

"I’ll take that as a high compliment from you Mr. Tucker. You know, you're not exactly the ideal patient yourself. And yet, here we both are."

"Call me Malcolm. And do you know that that watch makes you look a fucking lesbian?" She made a note on her yellow legal pad.

"Does that bother you?"

Not a ripple in her expression-not even in her voice.

"What?"

"Are you bothered by your perception of my possible homosexuality?"

"Jesus fucking Christ," he rubbed his face with his palms, feeling defeated. "You are the fucking worst."

"It's alright, I'm just taking the piss.

His head snapped up almost immediately. It was as though someone had suddenly flipped a switch in her, wherein the fucking  _robot_ he had always assumed she was, was replaced by a sliver of an actual human being. It was the first time she'd shown even so much as an ounce of personality. He nearly fainted when he met her eyes and saw a teasing glint looking back.

"Can you say that, as a therapist?"

"If you can call Julius Nicholson a bald fucking wanker, I'm sure I can say 'taking the piss' and get away with it."

"He told you that, did he?" he asked, incisors peeking out in a wolfish smile.

"Oh, he could hardly keep it in." Bizarrely, he found himself chuckling. Almost at ease.

"You've only got six sessions with me, Malcolm. Why not make the best, right?"

"Easy for you to fucking say, love. I've already got missed messages from more world leaders than you've ever fucking heard of. I don’t have time to waste a fucking hour a week on talking about feelings and shite. Whether or not I was bummed growing up, whatever your sort always fucking wants to fucking talk about."

Her face fell, almost immediately, back into its wooden facade. Whatever playful nature he might have teased out of her was long gone, carefully hidden away again out of sight. He was surprised to find himself almost disappointed. Unable to properly process his disappointment-something they were definitely not resolving in their sessions any time soon if their rocky start was any indication-he decided that she was probably frigid and owned cats.

"You've still got a half hour. We can sit in silence if you like. Fine by me, honestly."

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” As he reached to retrieve one of his Blackberrys from his pocket, she clicked a heel against the hardwood floor with a school marm-ish authority that made him jump.

“Sorry, but silence means working to you, does it?”

“You can’t be fucking serious. What is this, fucking infant school?” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not gonna sit here and fucking stare at you for half an hour.”

“We could always talk about your anger.”

"Ah, Jesus _fucking_ Christ.” He crumpled a few sheets of paper in his rapidly fisting hands. “Okay. Let's fucking get this over with. By all the cunts on the fucking cross." That strange twinkle was back in her eye.

“So, where do you think that your anger begins? What sort of things tend to trigger the beginning of rage, for you?”

“Talking to you, for a start.”

“Fabulous,” she made another note. “Where are you from in Glasgow?”


	3. Deep Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When last we left, we were discussing the benefits of meditation and deep breathing, and why you hate me because I went to Cambridge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been awhile since I posted a chapter. Things have been a little crazy. Anyway, here it is-a little short. Sorry for that as well.

**FROM:** erin_lana_mcleish@gmail.com

 **TO:** m.tucker@gmail.com

**[SENT: 6:15 PM]**

**SUBJECT:** First Session

Mr Tucker-

As first sessions go, I will say that we could have been more productive. I understand that you have not been thrown into this of your own free will, but I think we can make the best of this, and make real progress on your anger problem. I've included links to the effects of quiet meditation-it really does work. If you don't take my word for it, ask the Dalai Lama.

RE scheduling, I'd like you have you on Fridays at 5 PM over a period of six weeks-I find that spacing is the most effective. Will you let me know if that works with your schedule? I can work around the a different of day, but Friday is unfortunately non-negotiable.

I'd also like you to keep a list of what triggers you to anger, and email it to me once a day. Writing things down helps, even if it feels like nonsense at the time.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

-Erin

 

 **FROM:** m.tucker@gmail.com

 **TO:** erin_lana_mcleish@gmail.com

**[SENT: 6:40 PM]**

**SUBJECT: RE:** First Session

First, is there something that I can threaten you with that will make you call me Malcolm? Would you call me Malcolm if I took your glasses, shattered them, and then shoved all the broken, serrated glass into your ears?

Second, fuck off, I absolutely will not. I have an important fucking job-I've no time to keep a bloody diary like twelve year old girl with a flat chest and acne.

Take your list of triggers and fuck off.

M.

 

 **FROM:** erin_lana_mcleish@gmail.com

 **TO:** m.tucker@gmail.com

**[SENT: 6:54 PM]**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE:** First Session

Mr Tucker-

I don't love to remind you, but I do have to report back to Mr Nicholson so that you can keep your job.

It doesn't have to be a novel. Just a list.

-Erin

 

 **FROM:** m.tucker@gmail.com

 **TO:** erin_lana_mcleish@gmail.com

**[SENT: 7:02 PM]**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE:** First Session

Dear Doctor Frankencunt,

As per your request, my list of triggers for the day:

  1. Your
  2. Bloody
  3. Fucking
  4. Useless
  5. Emails



M.

PS-Lana is a fucking stupid middle name.

 

* * *

 

"I never asked-how did you manage to spin the window?" she asked, not bothering to greet him as she marched past Sam for a second time.

"And a good fucking afternoon to you. The line is that Nicola Murray's such a twat that she thought she could get better funding if her office was in omni-shambles."

She raised a perfectly arched brow.

"Really?"

"Fuck no, don't be daft."

She settled onto the edge of the worn-in sofa, folding her legs and extracting her legal pad with nearly mechanical synchronicity.

"Right then," she said flatly. "Let's dive right in."

He noticed that her shoes were the same ones she'd worn a week before-old Blahniks, several seasons out of style, perhaps twice mended-and completed an outfit that, upon close inspection, was more than a little shabby. Her pantsuit was well pressed, but the cut was almost woefully out of style. Even the maroon blouse she wore had been mended at the cuffs-he knew a darning job when he saw one.

"When last we left, we were talking about the benefits of meditation and deep breathing, and why you hate me because I went to Cambridge."

"Oh, every fucker out of Poxbridge is absolute shite-that bit's not personal." He took a moment to squint at her for dramatic effect. "Well, actually, it's a wee bit personal. Those glasses."

"What about them?"

"They're pretty fucking twatty."

He thought he could see her eyes twitch under the herculean effort not to roll them, and that made him feel just a tad bit better about the fact that he had to spend an uninterrupted hour with her.

Since their last meeting, Malcolm had been trying-rather unsuccessfully-to dig dirt up on Erin. Other than her birthday and some rather uninteresting information about the finances of her father's butcher shop in Edinburgh, it seemed that there was nothing more to know. At the very least, there was nothing she'd let him or his team of minions see.

Too, he'd decided to change tack in their sessions in an effort to chip away at her well-composed facade. His new course of action would be cool indifference, while remaining as fabulously offensive as was possible. Most people found his cold rage frightening enough to piss themselves, but if she was even unnerved, she didn't show it. In point of fact, she was better at unfeelingness than him, much as he hated to admit it. It was all he could do not to rip her head clean from her shoulders every time she made an apathetic, chilly remark.

"Do you think the reason that you're so hostile toward higher education is because you were taught that it wasn't for you, and now you deal with people straight out of the institutions you've grown up loathing, every day?"

"Do you think the reason you went to Cambridge is because your family shat money?"

"This isn't about-" he pressed on as though she hadn't spoken.

"Though you wouldn't know it to look at you." He watched as her small, manicured hand stole to the darning on her opposite cuff, and wondered if she'd done it herself.

"Often, childhood conditioning is the source of anger. Having to be in constant proximity with something you've been taught to hate."

Which really meant: _mind your own business, you fuck_.

"Maybe. Maybe it's because everyone in this fucking building is an incompetent fucking piss bag. That, also, might fucking cause a wee bit of anger in my otherwise obviously fucking perfect life." Malcolm spat.

Her lips twitched into something approximate to a smile, but her fingers still picked relentlessly at the maroon thread-now raveling away from a small tear.

"What do you think you can do to sort of control the anger impulse, so that you don't break any more windows?"

"Fucking move to Majorca and set myself up with a shack full of opium and eight fucking Thai prostitutes."

"Anything not involving the very real, very sad prostitution issue in Thailand?"

"They can be Brazilian, I'm not fucking picky."

When he was shouting about the lack of differences between Nicola Murray and a cum rag, she hid a smile with the flat of her hand-so quickly he nearly missed its happening. Erin's smile was something like a shooting star-over very quickly and utterly mesmerizing. When he felt his cheeks burn red, he switched to enumerating all of Ollie Reeder's failures at his job, and couldn't manage to meet her eyes for the remainder of their session.


	4. Relaxation, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was very odd, the things about her that made his heart beat a little faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few AU details in this-namely, the failing marriage of the Prime Minister. Named Part 1 because there's a Part 2.
> 
> Happy holidays, very belated. Sorry this is such a long time coming-these past couple of weeks have been very exhausting and very boozy. Still hungover. Still sad about David Bowie.

**FROM:** m.tucker@gmail.com

**TO:** erin_lana_mcleish@gmail.com

**[SENT: 7:45 PM]**

**SUBJECT:** I Hate Doing This

Do you know how much I fucking hate this? Margaret Thatcher, arse fucking me repeatedly with a strap-on, over broken glass and barbed wire, actually sounds better. Much, much fucking better. This is entirely shite.

I love fucking Wednesdays because usually everyone's in such a fog, they don't have time to ruin things. There's an assistant named Clarissa or Marissa who works in agriculture who might say that I called her a useless fucking cunt today, but I just want you to know that she  _is_ a useless fucking cunt, and deserved it. When you spill fucking boiling coffee on the ambassador of fucking Greece, you deserve a fucking bollocking.

So my list for the day is this:

  1. Stupidity
  2. Hot coffee
  3. Useless fucking cunts



Can't do Friday at 5, going to have to be 6.

Fuckity bye.

M.

 

**FROM:** erin_lana_mcleish@gmail.com

**TO:** m.tucker@gmail.com

**[SENT: 8:02 PM]**

**SUBJECT: RE:** I Hate Doing This

Malcolm-

Sounds like you really implemented the techniques we discussed...tell me, did you take deep breaths and count to ten before or after you jumped at the poor girl like a wild animal?

I do urge you to tae these sessions somewhat seriously-if not for the sake of your job, then for the sake of your health. At least make it  _seem_ as though you're avoiding a stroke-what would the free world do without you?

RE this week's session, 6 is too late. Can you work with 5:30? I have plans that I would rather not cancel.

-Erin

 

**FROM:** m.tucker@gmail.com

**TO:** erin_lana_mcleish@gmail.com

**[SENT: 8:04 PM]**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE:** I Hate Doing This

I'm sorry, I'll just tell the director of news and affairs at the BBC that my fucking therapist has a date. Fucking easy as pie.

M.

 

**FROM:** erin_lana_mcleish@gmail.com

**TO:** m.tucker@gmail.com

**[SENT: 8:25 PM]**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE:** I Hate Doing This

Malcolm-

Good to hear. See you at 5:30.

-Erin

PS-Give James my best, been ages since we've seen each other. Tell him I loved the BBC throw pillow set he sent at Christmas.

PPS-Comments about my personal life aren't wholly appropriate, but yes. I have got a date, actually.

 

As he screeched his frustration, he was partly convinced that if she were listening very carefully, wherever she was, she'd be able to hear it, and smile that infuriating little smile of hers.

"Tea, Malcolm?" Sam's voice seemed unusually small from her (safe) distance in the hall.

"And biscuits, yes." He could feel how red his cheeks were-how the vein in his temple was hammering away against his skin.

"You seem a bit out of sorts." Sam ventured bravely. He thought of her idly, for a moment. The girl had to be congratulated for sheer courage.

"I asked for a side of biscuits, not fucking psychoanalysis, love."

She bobbed her head with teeth worrying lips, and left him to toss office equipment around the room, only halfheartedly trying to relieve himself of the edge of his rage before his next meeting with DoSAC.

 

* * *

 

He wasn't typically one for pubs-they were usually crammed to the gills with the precise type of person he made a concerted effort to avoid, barring the sound bollockings that he often found they deserved. But sometimes he felt he deserved a few stiff drinks, and was happy to reward himself, especially after a long day of putting out media fires set by those who were charitably called allies.

If it wasn't enough that DoSAC-whose total power could probably rival that of a bankrupt Make A Wish Foundation-seemed to be constantly circling the u-bend of some filthy toilet, the Prime Minister's marriage was failing, and it was beginning to catch the public's attention. The tabloid headlines that crossed his desk were multiplying daily, and they had begun using a photograph of him that featured mysterious reddish stains on his cuffs and collar. 

Nearly salivating at the prospect of a stiff drink he made his way swiftly through the winding lanes of Whitehall, and shouldered the door of The Red Lion open with determination. A little brain softening, courtesy of Glenmorangie would be-for the first time in a very long time-quite alright by Malcolm.

After fighting through the crush of junior staffers and journalists, he perched himself on a stool wedged tightly against a teary eyed woman of forty, wrapped in a grey shawl.

"S'cuse me, you're in someone's chair," the woman spat, eyes beady and lips pulled in a permanent sneer. "You're going to have to move." His eyebrows made a heroic leap for his hairline, and in what could be called an impressively childish display of defiance, he took a long, cooling sip of his drink, shuddering as the ice sloshed against his teeth.

"I don't think I fucking will, no." Two very bright pink spots glowed on her cheeks.

"Sir, I must say that you're being quite rude," the woman sniffed. Malcolm felt his chin jut out, just a little. "There are seats opening up on the other end of the bar, why don't you take your attitude problem over there." She pointed a finger-painted with chipped pink polish-between two large, heavily perspiring businessmen.

"Believe me, it's been fucking difficult deciding between you and the fucking Brothers Sweatamazov over there, but in the end I'd rather a rude cunt than a waterfall of shite hygiene. You ought to count yourself lucky, really-your worst problem is you're sort of like the sixth Spice Girl-which was she, fucking Bitchy Spice?"

Her mouth hung open, fishlike, as Malcolm finished his drink in triumph.

In his reverie, he had not noticed that the previous occupant of his stool had returned.

"Hi."

Erin McLeish tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, and was nearly beaming as she picked her glass up from the bar.

"Oh for  _fuck's_ sake."

"Pleasure to see you as well."

If he was being honest with himself-and it was becoming increasingly difficult not to be-it sort of  _was_ a pleasure to see Erin in an environment that didn't dye her with harsh fluorescents. She was just barely short of beautiful with that smug half-smile plastered on her face, and though she was perhaps a little too rosy for the wine, he had to ball his hand into a fist in his pocket to keep himself from grinning. He caught himself wondering how the fuck her lips could be so pink, and flushed with a mixture of shame and a strange sort of excitement.

"Malcolm, this is Anna, an old friend of mine." she waved her glass distractedly in Anna's direction. "Anna, this is Malcolm Tucker, my patient."

"He's a complete bastard." said Anna haughtily.

"She's a cunt, but you know what they say about birds of a feather." She laughed-actually  _laughed_ -and Malcolm found his guts churning wildly as a sudden onslaught of patrons pressed them together-away from Anna and into a warped melody that could have been a David Bowie song, but he hardly cared. She smiled around her wine as she drank it, and hummed along tunelessly, but with vigor.

So wrapped up in their momentarily private world were they, that it took a full twenty minutes to realize that Anna had left the pub.

 

* * *

 

"Isn't this inappropriate or something? Shouldn't you be telling some poor fucking cunt the reason he likes getting his cock sucked is because his mum dressed him as a lass for his entire childhood?"

"You know, I do have a life beyond my job."

He would have retorted, but found himself completely disarmed by her gentle 

"We're off the clock. No reason to be shite to each other just because."

"You'd rather I had a reason to be shite to you?"

She looked as though she was choosing whatever she had to say with extreme care.

"Actually, I would." It was very odd, the things about her that made his heart beat a little faster. She raised her glass of wine with a ceremonious flourish.

"Slainte."

Malcolm couldn't resist a smirk.

"Slainte."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my wonderful editor and best friend, Joanna Keith. Read all of her flawless work here: http://archiveofourown.org/users/joannakth/pseuds/joannakth.


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